


For We Have Fallen

by iwearanearhatnow



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Poetry, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:51:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwearanearhatnow/pseuds/iwearanearhatnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Grantaire,” he says, and your name is cold and stone-hard in his clear voice, “you are incapable of believing, of thinking,  of willing, of living, and of dying.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	For We Have Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> A prose-poem version of everyone's favorite "permets-tu?" scene, in 2nd POV where "you" is Grantaire. Unbeta-ed, and it's my first time writing in this fandom....be gentle with me... *puts this down and scuttles away*

You sit in your corner with your hands wrapped around a bottle

and your eyes wrapped around him,

around the lock of hair that always hangs in his eyes

and the creases of his red jacket at his hips

and the fingers that will never twine with your own.

He is a prophet

preaching the gospel of all the things the world could be,

the fire of his conviction setting the room ablaze around you

and you warm yourself by it though it scorches you.

He sees you, the only one his fire cannot kindle,

feels your shadow across his brilliance

and his marble face twists with scorn

at the heretic who dares enter his sacred place.

“Grantaire,” he says, and your name is cold and stone-hard in his clear voice,

“you are incapable of believing,

of thinking,

of willing,

of living,

and of dying.”

The words sting,

confirmation of his disdain for all that you are,

but you bind your gaze to his as you reply:

“You will see.”

 

You slouch at your table with your hands wrapped around a bottle

and your mind struggling to wrap itself around the idea of him

gone,

his hair turning rust-red with blood

and the crimson of his jacket becoming indistinguishable from the crimson all around

and those fingers twitching and going still.

He is a messiah

leading his apostles down the path to Calvary

to be sacrifices on the altar of progress

and they go willingly.

He does not see you here,

drinking as though the world is ending

because it is,

because he is ending

and you would follow him anywhere

even into oblivion.

So you drink to drown yourself and the gunshots outside

and when sleep comes you do not fight it.

 

When you wake it is unexpected.

The room is silent as a winter’s morning

and your fingers are numb

and this is wrong.

You lift your head from where your cheek had been pressed to the table

and your breath flees your lungs as you see him

standing alone at the window,

his hair wild around his serious face

and his jacket rent across the front

and his fingers clenched defiantly around that damned flag.

He is a god

glowing with divine fury

martyring himself to his cause

and as always you are devout.

He sees you, the only one left

and your name is a question in his eyes.

_Grantaire_

You lock your eyes on his from across the room

and you would not move them now for the world.

_you are incapable of believing_

You never shared his convictions.

This has not changed;

you cannot see a better world beyond his barricade

but you can see him

and he is the one thing

you can believe in.

_of thinking_

You do not know what you are doing.

You have long passed the point of logic and are functioning on instinct alone,

on the surety that this is what must be

and for fear you might change your mind

you do not stop to think it through.

_of willing_

You stand though your legs are leaden.

Somehow you stay upright,

somehow you walk toward him

and although the soldiers’ guns are pointing at you now

you will yourself not to falter.

_of living_

You have never put much stock in life.

It is cruel and unfeeling and seeks to break you

and you have always preferred it when less than sober

but though the alcohol sings in your veins

you are more alive now than you have ever been.

_and of dying._

You reach him.

You must have spoken because all the soldiers are watching you expectantly.

The words come from somewhere inside you you had not known existed:

“Finish both of us at one blow,”

and you turn to him

and your eyes have not left his as you ask

_“Permets-tu?”_

A heartbeat.

His fingers brush yours like a breath

and he clasps your hand.

His eyes are no longer burning you

but filling you with a gentle warmth

and he is

\- miracle of miracles -

smiling

at you.

When the world shatters

he is still smiling

and his hand is still in yours.

 

_You will see._

  
  



End file.
